Asleep, perchance, lie sealèd heavens now,
While one enjoyeth grant designed for all.
Ah render to our sighs
The sunlight of thine eyes,
That shunneth him, who into sorrow born,
Doth languish of their benefit forlorn!
THE CITY OF FLORENCE
Nay, calm your holy aspiration; know
That he who maketh you my boon forego,
In fear doth expiate his mighty crime.